Reasons Why Justin Taylor Is A Twat
by StrongatHeart
Summary: Brian decides to make a list about Justin...
1. Chapter 1

Title: Reasons Why Justin Taylor Is A Twat

Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk. Not even Justin, though I did try to bargain with Showtime and Cowlip for him once.

* * *

Justin Taylor. Even the twink's name makes me insane. I do not think I have ever met a person more infuriatingly twat-like than him. Not even Michael, and that is really saying something.

These are not some baseless, vague reflections of mine, existing mostly in my own head...they are actual, direct observations. Justin Taylor is a twat. There is no getting around it, it is practically scientifically proven fact, like the Earth being round and gravitational pull.

So, in light of this recent discovery of mine, I decided to make a list. A list of every reason why this new knowledge cannot possibly be proved false. A list of every contribution to my ever-growing compilation of reasons for Justin's twat-ness. So here it is:

_Reasons Why Justin Taylor Is A Twat_

_#1 He would cry if he ever found out I was writing this list. _

And he would. His big blue eyes would fill with tears, his bottom lip would quiver, and he'd look up at me with that helpless, hurt expression as if asking what he had ever done to me. I'd roll my eyes. The tears would spill over and he would take off for Debbie's or Daphne's or the Munchers. Why'd he have to be so sensitive? Damn artist's temperament. Really, people called me things all the time, and you didn't see me crying over them. Most of the time they were much worse things than 'twat' too. He had no right to cry.

But he would, and then I'd have to play the hero and go over and comfort him, tell him whatever I could to make him feel better. Only because if I didn't, he'd flood the whole fucking building out with his tears, and I didn't want my imported sofa ruined. Plus, I really didn't need him crying to Debbie about what an asshole I was being. I'm pretty sure I've already got brain damage from her hitting me on the back of the head so many times. And Daphne's pretty dangerous when she's angry, too. The last thing I needed was a horde of angry women after me for hurting their "Sunshine."

_#2 He insists on filling my life with all sorts of hetero-torture methods. _

Movie nights alone, candlelit dinners, even a 'tunnel of love' ride at a theme park once... I'm fairly certain I was high at the time...

Why on Earth he forces these things on me, I'll never know. He claims to love me (Though I prefer the word 'worships'...bit more accurate) so why does he take so much pleasure in causing me pain? He takes one look at my revolted face and starts giggling like a school-girl. What the fuck is that all about? I know he thinks he'll get through to me one of these days... like maybe I'll wake up one morning and decide that my life-long dream is to live a pathetic imitation of a heterosexual cult-life. Not going to happen.

_Ever. _

Okay, so maybe I don't mind so much when he curls really close to me during the particularly frightening or gory parts of the movies he rents. Or when he tangles our feet together under the table at Woody's or the diner. Or even... I can't believe I'm writing this... the occasional slow dances with him (all his idea), though the gawking we're forced to endure on those occasions is never much fun.

But still... Hetero. Torture. Methods.

_#3 His damn artwork. _

Justin is an amazing artist. I mean really, truly amazing. And he has this incredible passion for it that even rivals his passion for stalking me. Hard to believe, I know. Of course, I'd never tell him how impressive I think he is with a paintbrush. Brian Kinney doesn't do flattery. Except, perhaps, when he's kissing a potential client's ass (sometimes literally), but that's about it.

Again, I'd never dream of telling him this, but I'm always a bit honored to be the subject of his artwork, which I am quite often. And why shouldn't I be? I'm fucking gorgeous, after all. But, for some lesbianic reason or another, I always have to hide my smile whenever he asks me to pose for him.

Ahem. Anyway, back to my "Justin is a twat" argument... So I'm honored and flattered and all of that other appreciative shit, but then he finishes his "masterpiece." And then, because he is Justin and is apparently genetically incapable of not being a twat...he must ask, _every damn time..._what I think of it.

It never fucking fails.

I have tried every brush off, every side-stepping-the-question technique known to humankind... yet he still continues to ask me. Of course, my answer, at least in my own head, is that I think it's fucking brilliant...but how am I supposed to tell him that? More importantly, why does the little shit keep asking me? Then when I brush him off or don't answer, he gets this broken, wounded look on his face, like I just crushed every dream he'd ever held dear. Again with the sensitive artist thing. So I get this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which, slightly concerned for my health, I described to Debbie once... and she had the fucking nerve to suggest that I was "actually feeling the human emotion of guilt, you big asshole."

Right. I think we can be reasonably certain that's not it. It's more likely due the fact that I then have to put up with a sniveling, pitiful twink for the next hour until I tell him I like the damn painting or sketch or whatever the hell he did, and he starts beaming that giant smile of his that earned him his nickname.

Little shit.

_#4 He loves to... oh, God, I can't even write it. He loves to do that sick thing that hetero's do at night in bed. All right, I'll write it once_...cuddle. _There. From now on, we shall just call it the 'C' word. _

Justin loves to do the 'C' word thing at night. He just scoots on over to my side of the bed, wraps his arms around me, and lays his head on my chest like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Then he sweats and squirms and snores all night so that I can barely get any sleep at all. He seems to assume that, just because I drape my own arms around his back and shoulders, run my fingers through his hair, and kiss his forehead, that I actually want him over there with me. Other than that, have I ever given him any indication that I appreciated it? Or do I just look like a fucking body pillow? It's disgusting I tell you. Disgusting.

It is especially sick and disgusting when he does that thing he does... kissing my neck and nuzzling it with his nose. Then he just... _breaths... _like he's trying to breath me in or something. Is his nose the only functional sensory device on his body? I don't think so. So why must he sniff me like a blood hound, I ask you? Then, of course, my own nose happens to be about an inch from his blond little head, so I really can't help it when I lean forward just a bit and then I'm breathing in the scent of his shampoo. Nor can I help it when I think that it actually smells pretty good, like him. And I really can't do a thing about it when my lips brush the top of his head. They're right there, after all. It's a complete accident.

Anyway, Justin and his stupid 'C' word. Sick.

_#5 He makes me think about things I don't want to think about. _

All right, by the time this list is finished, I'm going to have to throw it in the fire, lest it be seen by another pair of human eyes. But I will actually admit, with this pen and paper as witnesses... that Justin Taylor has actually made me give a shit.

I don't know how it happened. One night, he was the underage twink I'd brought home who practically worshiped the ground I walked on and wouldn't stop stalking me, the next he was... something else entirely. Still a twat, but not the annoying, stalking twat that he was. I'm not saying I want to go off and marry the little shit or anything, but I do want him to be happy. Healthy. Safe. If at all possible, I want him somewhere close by, while he's at it, too.

He makes me think about... what it would be like. If I really gave up everything... all the tricking, all the clubbing, all the drugs and booze... and just kept him instead. Of course, I would never. I'm Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. But he's made me wonder, on the rare occasion that I was actually drunk or high enough to entertain the thought...how bad it would really be.

But then, as soon as I get to the part in my mind's fantasy where I come home from work and fuck him all night—just him— I realize what I'm thinking and quickly down another shot of Jim Beam.

So maybe I give a shit. That doesn't mean I have to analyze it like a fucking therapist or a lesbian and figure out what it's supposed to mean for me.

_#6 _

Shit.

_#6 He's a twat because I can't even think of a damn number six. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk, Showtime and Cowlip, AKA the luckiest people in the world, do.**

**A/N: So, thanks to NaraxKagura's review, I got the idea for a second chapter of this. :D**

"Brian?" I heard my name being called from the bedroom. I frowned, concerned. Having my name being called in the bedroom wasn't exactly new, but with me currently sorting through mail in the kitchen and Justin's voice sounding unaccountably upset, I couldn't help my own troubled curiosity.

"What?" I called back.

"What is this?"

Justin's voice sounded choked and close to tears now, and I quickly made my way to the back of the loft, afraid of what I would find. He still wasn't completely recovered from_—the prom incident—_even after all these months. Maybe he never would be. Which is why, when I swiftly jogged the steps separating the bedroom from the rest of the loft, I was sure I would find Justin on the bed, perhaps clutching his head in unimaginable agony or with that haunted, parallelized-with-fear look in his eyes he got during those excruciating moments that his memory seemed to return to him in painful flashes.

Instead, I found him at the dresser, holding a crumpled bit of paper in his hand and looking more lost than I had ever seen him.

"What is this?" he repeated, brandishing the paper at me. Then I noticed that the dresser drawer was open. Oh, fuck.

"Did you write this?"

Fuck fuck fuck. Well, what was I supposed to say? Who else could have written it? Not to mention that it was plainly written in my own distinctive handwriting. Shit.

I closed my eyes. He was not supposed to find that. Actually, I had forgotten about it myself. I had meant to throw it out, but the very moment I'd gotten up to do so, Justin had barged through the loft door and I'd stuffed it in the nearest safe place until I could dispose of it at a later date.

Obviously that hadn't happened.

He had found the list...the damn list of my complaints about him and now he was doing exactly what I knew he would do, staring up at me like an innocent, defenseless puppy I had just kicked in the gut. Of course, none of the not-as-horrible thoughts I'd had while writing the list had made it onto the page. It was just a list of six complaints:

_#1 He would cry if he ever found out I was writing this list. _

_#2 He insists on filling my life with all sorts of hetero-torture methods._

_#3 His damn artwork_

_#4 He loves to... oh, God, I can't even write it. He loves to do that sick thing that hetero's do at night in bed. All right, I'll write it once...cuddle. There. From now on, we shall just call it the 'C' word. _

_#5 He makes me think about things I don't want to think about. _

_#6 He's a twat because I can't even think of a damn number six. _

Really, this hadn't sounded so bad at the time. It wasn't even _too _horrible now. But to Justin, of course, it was the fucking apocalypse.

"Why?" his voice cracked, and I felt that same sinking feeling in my stomach as when he got all broken up about my refusing to comment on his artwork. AKA the general root of complaint #3. I knew that damn turkey sandwich I had gotten from the diner earlier wasn't to be trusted. God only knew how long it had been sitting out to actually make me feel nauseous like this.

"My _'damn artwork'? _So what, you don't like my stuff? _And I fill your life with hetero torture methods? _What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why the fuck would you make a _list _about me, Brian?"he shrieked.

"Justin, it's not what it looks like," I said rather lamely, wondering when I had begun to deem it necessary to make excuses to him for my behavior. Whatever the hell happened to no excuses, no apologies, no regrets?

Of course, whether I chose to acknowledge it or not, I knew the answer to that question. Justin was what the hell happened.

He let out a dry bark of humorless laughter. "Give me a _fucking break!_ It's exactly what it looks like. Well, I'm not going to...what was it?" Justin glanced down at the list. _"Cry because I found out about your fucking list!" _

Even I had the sense and decency not to point out that he was already doing just that. I doubted whether he even noticed that his cheeks were glistening, whether from tears of anger and betrayal, or pure hurt and dejection, I wasn't sure, and didn't think I even wanted to know.

"Well, since I'm such a pain in your ass, why don't I just spare you some trouble and get the fuck out of here, since you obviously don't want me around?"

Only the years of studious practice I'd had keeping my features free of all emotion kept the evidence of my imploding insides from showing.

"Justin, don't do this!" I called after him, half of me exasperated at his queen-out, and the other half sort of disappointed that he was now on his way toward the loft door. "Come on, don't be such a fucking drama queen!" I called after him. "You don't get it!"

"_What _don't I get, Brian?" he wheeled around suddenly, glaring at me through his tears. That I had caused. Again. Damn, that turkey sandwich was wreaking some havoc on my churning insides.

I took a deep breath. His hand was an inch away from the door. If I said the wrong thing, he would bolt.

"Look, I didn't mean it the way it sounds when you look at that list," I said, trying to convey to him without actually saying outright that I actually didn't mind the things on that list as much as I made it sound like.

"Then how _did _you mean it?" he asked. His voice was quiet now, desperate, but he was no longer yelling.

I looked away. I couldn't have him within my line of vision and speak the words I needed to say to make this better.

"I don't...mind," I said simply, hoping against hope that this would be enough, that he'd understand what I was trying to say.

He merely looked confused. I sighed again, resigning myself.

"I don't mind," I began again slowly, "what you do. The things on the list that you do."

"What are you talking about?" he sniffled pathetically, wiping his watery eyes on the back of his hand; I felt my emotional dam take a steady hit. He just looked so fucking pathetic.

"The hetero torture, the cu—the holding you at night thing, your artwork...I don't mind it." There. I did it. I hope he's fucking happy.

Sure enough, he blinked a couple of times, then a hint of his Sunshine smile began to peek through the tears like sunlight through clouds. "Really?" he asked hopefully.

"Really," I said crisply, eager to get this fucking lesbionic conversation over with.

"So you don't think I'm a twat?"

Well, I wasn't going to lie to the little shit.

"I know you're a twat, Sunshine." His smile fell. I rolled my eyes. "I just don't particularly mind that are," I admitted gruffly.

"Aw, _Bri!" _

Suddenly, I found my arms rather full of blond twink as Justin ran forward and through his arms around me. I was unable to keep the thought of how sickeningly lesbionic I had become lately out of my head, but I hugged him back nonetheless. How fucking romantic. Ridiculously romantic, one might say.

"Hey, you know what?" he asked, leaning back a bit to look me in the eye. I cocked an eyebrow at him. "I think it's only fair that I make a list, too," he said seriously.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah," he grinned. _"'Reasons why Brian Kinney is an Asshole...' _It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Funny, I've never heard you complain about anything to do with my asshole before."

"Who's complaining? I don't particularly mind it," he quoted. He was smirking now, like some fiendish cartoon villain about to conduct his evil master plan to secure world domination. "Reason number one—"

Fucking twat.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, now, thanks to jen's review asking for "Reasons Brian Kinney is an Asshole," I decided to write one more chapter for this thing, haha. I'm pretty sure this is going to be the last one, especially considering this was actually supposed to be a one shot, lol. And there are probably a lot more reasons why Brian is such an asshole, but as I'm only human, I most likely couldn't live long enough to type out _all _of them. ;) **

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Queer as Folk. It belongs to Showtime and Cowlip. **

I was sitting on the couch, innocently minding my own business and flipping through the paper. Relaxing, doing absolutely nothing wrong and nothing to suggest that what I wanted then was for Justin Taylor, the bane of my existence, to wander in from the bedroom, clutching something in his hand and looking particularly smug about something.

The little voice of reason in my head that always spoke in Lindsay's voice warned me that this couldn't be good. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he strode haughtily across the room and plopped down heavily on the couch beside me. I kept my gaze firmly fixed on a point in my paper, hoping he wouldn't notice that my eyes were no longer moving to scan the page. I was now rather preoccupied with watching him without making it obvious. He had me curious against my will.

Justin cleared his throat to announce his presence and get my attention. Like I didn't already fucking know he was there. I decided that the best course of action would be to simply ignore him. I nonchalantly flipped a page of my newspaper, still not actually reading a word of it, and settled into the couch cushions.

I felt said cushions move under me as he crawled closer. I half expected him to do something incredibly annoying and lesbionic and, well, _Justin—_like curl up on my lap and bury his face in my chest so that I couldn't see my paper over him, but instead he just poked me in the shoulder.

"What?" I drawled, trying to appear bored.

"I have something I want to read to you," he said matter-of-factly.

"Great. Do I have to listen?"

"Yes."

I sighed wearily, now going for a long-suffering sort of expression. "Fine. Go ahead."

He smiled and straightened up. "Well, first I'd just like to say that, despite everything I'm about to say, I love you more than anything."

I snorted.

"Also, you started this whole thing, so really I'm just returning the favor."

"Are you going to read whatever the fuck it is you want to read to me or not?"

He shot me a warning glare before letting his innocent Sunshine smile settle into to place as he began to read from the paper he held tightly in his hand.

"_Reasons why Brian Kinney is an Asshole..." _

My eyebrows shot up my forehead_. Little fucker..._"Youdid not actually write that fucking list, did you?"

"Are you going to be quiet so I can read?" he scowled at me. I fell silent, rolling my eyes toward the heavens as he continued. Why the hell he thought I would want to listen to him read a list of things about me that annoyed him was beyond me. But, considering he had found mine concerning him, I figured it was only fair that I sit through it. It might be interesting, anyway.

"Number one... He has little regard for other peoples' feelings."

I gave a dry chuckle. "Now that's where you're wrong, Sunshine, I have _no _regard for other peoples' feelings."

"Yeah, I've noticed that. But I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that there _might _be a heart down there somewhere under all the ice... and rock hard muscles," he said, eyes darting down to the bare skin peeking out the top of my shirt.

"Never assume anything," I smirked, my tongue finding its way into my cheek.

"Number two... he gives everyone shit about accepting help when it's needed, then refuses to accept it when it is offered to him."

"I don't need any help," I said stubbornly.

"See? That's exactly the sort of attitude I'm talking about. You need to learn when to let go of your pride and accept that everyone needs somebody sometimes," he said accusingly.

"Yeah. Everybody except me," I replied coolly. When had I ever given the impression that I was incapable of doing something because of the lack of another person lending their assistance?

Justin rolled his eyes. "Yeah right. I've saved your ass a fair few times."

I almost laughed. "When was this, and where the fuck was I? Obviously, I wasn't anywhere near_ reality _when it happened..."

He glared at me. "I've helped you."

"Care to tell me _when?" _

"Not really."

I surveyed him carefully. He was biting his lower lip, avoiding my eyes, and looking generally guilty. What wasn't he telling me?

"Come on, now's your chance," I prompted. "When have I ever called on you to save my ass?"

"Never," he admitted. "Doesn't mean you didn't need me to. And it doesn't mean I didn't."

I was beginning to get exasperated. He knew I hated playing games. "What the fuck are you talking about, Justin?"

He sighed. "Nothing. There was just a little incident, about a year ago... you probably don't even remember it. Some guy was on your ass because you didn't promote him or something, and I got him to lay off. That's all, okay?"

I narrowed my eyes, certain beyond doubt that that was _not _all there was to it, but I left it alone and let Justin continue with his list.

"Number three...he doesn't give a shit how bad he scares people."

All right, the last two I could understand... somewhat... but now I was a little confused. "What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked again, wrinkling my forehead in puzzlement.

He frowned. "I'm talking about the way you are sometimes. Your famous Kinney self-destruct modes you go into."

"I don't fucking go into any—" I began.

"You _do," _he cut me off. "When something happens and you don't or can't deal with it like a normal human being, you fall right into your own self-inflicted trap of destruction. One of these days, no one's going to be able to save you. You're eventually going to have to start rescuing yourself from yourself," he said solemnly.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you finished?"

He considered. "Yes."

"Good. You really need to stop hanging out with Ben. He's already filled Michael's head with crap... yesterday he was actually going on about the_ 'self-imposed seclusion of the character of Captain Astro, and the resultant ramifications on his life.'_ The last thing I need is for him to get to you, too," I said gruffly.

Damn Zen Ben and his analytical mind-warping powers. It made for fucking boring conversation, which was all I'd been able to get out of my best friend since he'd started dating the freakishly balanced professor. Well, I was not letting him get to Justin. Next thing I knew, he'd be spouting gibberish about symbolism instead of blowing me or wanting to chat about ancient civilizations of dead people in favor of fucking.

No, I was certainly not letting that happen. I think I'd have to kill myself.

An image of a snow-white scarf flashed through my mind at the thought. Hmm... maybe there was something to that theory of Kinney self-destruct mode.

Anyway...

"Number four...he is simultaneously the most and least mature person I know," Justin continued.

I chewed on this for a moment. "And how's that, exactly?"

Justin shrugged. "You...you're like...wise beyond, well, the years of anyone I've ever met. You understand more than most people do, you don't get caught up in all the bullshit. You see things as they are, you know the way things work, and you're brave enough to be who you are. No matter what. And in those ways, you're like, a total Yoda or something," he explained.

This time I actually did laugh. "Short, green, and irritating I am not."

Justin grinned. "No, I definitely prefer your embodiment of Yoda. You are beginning to give him a run for his money, as far as age is concerned, though."

I made a face at him. "Asshole."

He rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Which brings me to my second point. You also have a way of being the most immature person on the planet."

"I resent that," I said, pointing a finger at him sternly.

"Resent it all you want," said Justin, shrugging again. "You throw inexplainable temper tantrums over the stupidest stuff, whine and refuse when you have to do something you don't want to do...plus you act like a horny seventeen year old ninety-five percent of your waking moments."

Okay. So that stung a little. "Well, you should know all about how horny seventeen year olds act, considering you were one just last year."

"And yet you act like one more often than I ever did."

I didn't bother to reply. It was like arguing with my fucking mother, well, arguing with Debbie... as she lectured me on my behavior. I swore to myself I would never live with a parental unit again after I moved out of my childhood house. What the hell had ever happened to that? That wasn't to mention the fact that Justin was twelve fucking years my junior, and yet he was, most of the time anyway, the "mature" one in our rela...arrangement, something even Lindsay had pointed out to me once.

"What's number five?" I asked, feigning boredom again as I successfully attempted to divert his attention.

It worked like a charm. He looked down at his paper again, and I watched as his cheeks turn distinctly pink. "Number five..." he said quietly but determinedly, not looking up from the paper. "He won't admit he loves me, even though it's obvious."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Then opened it back up, where it remained half-open for at least ten more seconds. I closed my eyes. We weren't about to have this conversation _again, _were we?

"Justin..."

"That's all there is," he said, his voice still so soft I barely heard him. He got up from the couch, taking his list with him.

I sighed as he hurried back to the bedroom, returning my attention to my newspaper, though any hope of actually reading it now was hopelessly lost. I dropped my head into my hand, rubbing my eyes wearily. I realized that I was a little unnerved by all he'd said. I knew that even Justin, who had practically worshiped me, _adored _me, had to at least have a few complaints about me. What he'd said had surprised me though. Each of the five things he'd mentioned.

You know the really scary part, though? The part that was causing my senses to prickle in awareness as I tried to ignore the fact that my stomach was turning uncomfortably?

The little fucker was right.

I am in_ such_ deep shit.


End file.
